


Hohn

by ahhmylarryfeels, MooMoo1314



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Some Humor, teensy weensy bit of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:37:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1777657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahhmylarryfeels/pseuds/ahhmylarryfeels, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooMoo1314/pseuds/MooMoo1314
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluffy Johnlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't much of a story. My best friend and I got bored one day so we decided to co-write a Johnlock. I write from Sherlock's point of view, and she writes in John's. It switches between us whenever there is a double space. (MooMoo1314)
> 
> Hey, ahhmylarryfeels here. Hope you enjoy the story! Feedback is always very much appreciated in the form of comments or kudos. Enjoy! xx.

“John! Come in here!” Sherlock called from the sofa.

 

“Yes, Sherlock?” John stepped out of the kitchen and looked at the detective questioningly.

 

“Hand me my phone,” he says, eyes closed. He extends his hand out toward the direction he left it.

 

“You can’t do anything yourself, can you?” John grumbled in exasperation. Begrudgingly, he picked it up and tossed it to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock didn’t thank John, he knows he appreciates it. Instead, Sherlock begin going through the contacts until he find the right one. Molly.

_The body I looked at in the morgue, is it yellow yet?_

A rather short time goes by before Sherlock gets a reply. _It’s seven thirty, Sherlock, I’ve been home for two hours_.

_Have any dinner plans?_

Hardly a second before his phone vibrates again. _No, did you want to go somewhere...?_

_Good. The morgue, meet me there in ten minutes._ Sherlock pockets the phone and jumps up from the couch.

“John!” he yells, getting his coat, “I’m going to St. Barts, care to join?”

 

“Might as well. I've nothing else to do.” John went over to shrug on his coat and said, “What are we doing this time?"

 

“Body at the morgue. If he turns yellow, it means it’s a triple homicide.” Sherlock opens the door for John and himself.

 

“How in the bloody hell does that make any sense?” John asked, stepping out the door in front of Sherlock.

 

Sherlock sighed. Explaining takes too long for such dull minds, he thought. "You're the bloody doctor, John"

 

John rolled his eyes and scowled as they walked the stairs and pushed through the door out onto the cement. Sherlock stepped forward and called for a taxicab while John stood next to him and silently questioned his choice of friends.

 

It wasn’t long before both John and Sherlock were in the cab.

 

They sat in a comfortable silence, the cab taking familiar turns and stops as John attempted to slyly study Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, though he was pretty sure that Sherlock wasn't oblivious to his ogling.

 

Sherlock sat near the window watching the clouds float in the hazy evening sky. Maybe afterwards would be a good time to have dinner at Angelo’s, he figured. John had taken a liking to the resturaunt since the first "date" they'd had. They'd had many "dates" since then.

Sherlock found himself hoping to have many dates in the future.

 

John watched Sherlock as he gazed out the window, seemingly deep in thought. There was something calming about just sitting there next to him, without the usual bustle and busy cases. These moments were fleeting, and John tried so hard to keep them in his grasp.

 

The detective looked over to John, who looked down immediately. Sherlock knew he looked fabulous as always, but it was so strange to him when he caught John looking at him like that. John was different from the moment he offered Sherlock his phone. His difference was almost contagious, it certainly gave Sherlock new thoughts and feelings.

 

The taxi pulled up in front of the hospital, and the liquid moment slid through John’s fingers once more. He trailed after Sherlock, not quite ready to engage in the natural giddy, adrenaline-pumped excitement that he usually felt being around Sherlock and solving cases with him. He could at least hold on to the memory of the swift moment of peace until they got to Molly.

 

Sherlock swept his thoughts clean and pounced out of the cab. He hardly waited for John as he briskly paced the two steps between the car and hospital door. They walked down in silence to the morgue where Molly awaited. She had her hair down and wore a purple blouse and skirt. She was in her usual lab coat, wearing her usual shoes, but had a new color of makeup on.

She sat on a table when Sherlock walked in and quickly jumped down to greet me. “Sherlock-” she flustered, and when her eyes fell on my companion walking in behind him, her expression gloomified. “...and John. Of course. Hello,” she said, her smile back in its usual place.

 

“Molly,” John greeted politely with a nod and a smile. She kept looking at Sherlock. “Sherlock’s told me you got a body that may turn... yellow.”

 

“Oh yes-” she says turning swiftly. She opens a square in the wall and rolls out. On it, was a man in his mid-thirties with slicked back blond hair and pale yellow skin. “Ray Codswaddle,” Molly read from the paperwork, “Shot twice in the head and three times in the back.” As Sherlock starts examining the man, he blocks the rest of the room out.

 

John watched as Sherlock inspected the body, ignoring Molly and himself as the detective took a good look. “How would his yellow skin indicate a triple homicide? He didn’t tell me,” John asked Molly quietly, tearing his gaze from Sherlock's back to meet her eyes. She was silent for a while, watching Sherlock with curious eyes.

 

“Didn’t tell me either,” Molly whispers from behind Sherlock. After he got all he needed, Sherlock slid his pocket scope back into his coat and retied his scarf around his neck.

“Angelo’s?” he ask John.

 

John paused, then searched Sherlock’s face for any signs that he’d gathered something. His face was blank. “Sure,” the doctor replied. John’d ask him again there.

 

Sherlock quickly thanked Molly and opened the door for the both of them. She may have started to say something, but the door had already closed. They walked up to the ground floor where Sherlock motioned for cab and waited for John to exit the building behind him.

It was easy finding a cab at this time of day and as soon as the detective told the driver their destination, they were both seated comfortably in the back.

 

On the way to Angelo’s, John managed to steer his thoughts away from the man next to him, instead looking out at the rush of the city. John wanted to speak, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Every time he opened his mouth to talk, John clamped it shut again, and he could feel Sherlock’s curious gaze on the side of his face.

 

Sherlock sat silently in the car, inwardly hoping John would comment on something, just so Sherlock could here his voice once again. John stayed silent and after a moment Sherlock glanced over at him- but his "glance" lingered. John looked distraught.

Emotions. (yawn).

But Sherlock couldn’t help but think how different it was when it was John’s emotions. It was something Sherlock hadn’t felt before. When John was sad, he felt sad. When John was happy, Sherlock just couldn’t help but smile.

He thought about these peculiar feelings as they pulled up to the diner.

 

They continued the semi-comfortable silence until they were seated at a table. John let his eyes wander the sharp features of Sherlock's face before he quirked an eyebrow and said, “So? What’s the verdict? The man yellow enough for you?”

 

“Not quite,” the detective said. “All men tend to yellow a bit after dying. We’ll have to go back later tonight. Morning will be too late.” He finished as Angelo came up to the table.

“Ah, my two favourite customers! Will it be the usual?” he asked. John nodded as Sherlock gazed out the window. “Good.”

He scuttled off and was almost gone a full minute before he appeared again before the table. “Almost forgot,” he said, placing a candle between them with a wink.

John’d stopped protesting that they were on a date long ago. Sherlock had just suspected he’d gotten tired of it.

 

When Angelo set the candle on the table, John flashed back to that first day here, when he had objected to it being a date. The doctor had learned a while ago, after many ignored attempts, that it was useless to protest, so he stopped. And, secretly, he liked it. If a little candle could make his time here with Sherlock take the pretense of a date, then he’d let it burn on. Anything to make it feel real, even if only to John.

 

As they waited for our dinner, Sherlock thought back to the first time they were here together. He had told John he considered himself married to his work- and he meant it. He really did.

But as time wore on and John kept insisting they were not on a date, he couldn’t help but feel bothered by John’s harsh tone.

Sherlock considered himself married to his work. But as it happened, John had been so deep into his life, he was becoming Sherlock’s work. And against every one of his morals and philosophies, he liked it.

 

“So, got any other cases?” John asked curiously. At times, work would be slow, only cases not worth taking up being offered, and at others, Sherlock would go through more cases than you would believe. The doctor would be lying if he said Sherlock didn’t fascinate him at times.

 

“Just the one—if he turns yellow,” Sherlock stated. He tore his gaze from the window to steal a glance at John. Sherlock couldn’t help feeling all tingly with him here, a nice low lit restaurant—with a candle, no less. “Seen anything interesting in the newspapers?”

 

“No,” John said absently. “Not really.” The doctor paused for a moment before furrowing his eyebrows. “What’s with the yellow thing, anyway? What made you wanna take that up?”

 

Angelo came back to the table, distracting both John and Sherlock. He set John’s ravioli in front of him and a plate in front of Sherlock.

 

John immediately dug in to his dish, pushing the question to the back of his mind for later. He swore, he would never understand half of the things he did, John thought. Glancing up at his face, John noticed how the flicker of the candle accentuated some of Sherlock’s features; his eyes were a bit darker, almost stormy, and his cheekbones were more prominent. He was breathtaking, certainly a sight for sore eyes.

 

Sherlock could feel John’s eyes on him as he ate. John’s beautiful, darkly colored eyes. It was so strange how only John could make him so self-aware. Was he sitting up straight? Did he have food on his mouth?

The question lingered until Sherlock glanced back at him. John dropped his gaze.

Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t even know he had.

 

“Well,” John said between bites, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a napkin, “got any big plans for tomorrow?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay.” John nodded and took another bite. “I won’t be home for a few hours, though, so find something to entertain yourself that isn’t so hazardous to walls of the flat, please.”

 

Sherlock looked him up and down. Shopping. Definitely shopping. “Grab me some oxide nitrogen while you’re out, would you?”

 

“How did you know I was-” John cut himself off, shaking his head. “Nevermind. It’s probably something that only you would find obvious... But shopping isn’t all I'm doing...”

 

“Of course not, you’re also going to lunch with an old friend,” Sherlock concluded.

 

John fidgeted uncomfortably and said, “Yes... She is indeed a very old... friend of mine.”

 

Uninteresting. “What’s her name?” Sherlock asked almost a bit sarcastically.

 

“Marlene,” John told him. He smiled down at his food as his lips formed the name.

 

Sherlock shuddered. Hopefully not visibly. He looked over to see if John had noticed. Why should he feel threatened? It was just lunch. They were having dinner right now. Dinner beats lunch. No, Sherlock chastised himself. If what he was being pulled into was a competition for John’s love he was not going to be in it.

There was no competition. Sherlock was John’s universe, and nothing could change that.

 

When John looked up, Sherlock was frowning, which, in turn, caused John to frown, but he didn’t question the detective’s sudden shift in mood. The food was delicious and John was certainly going to enjoy this dinner with this extraordinary man. This time, when he smiled fondly, Marlene was not the one starring in his thoughts.


	2. Morgue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to the morgue

After they had finished, they headed back to their flat.  
  
  
It was getting dark by the time they arrived. There was no sign of Mrs. Hudson, so John assumed that she had gone to bed. The two friends entered the flat, John following close behind Sherlock as the weight of the day made his eyelids heavier.  
  
  
Sherlock had stepped into the living room with John a pace behind him. He really didn’t want the day to end. He didn’t want to be away from John, even if just to sleep.  
  
  
“Dinner was.... It was nice,” John mumbled a bit sleepily. “But now I need some tea. Fancy a cuppa?”  
  
  
John looked about to pass out, but Sherlock didn’t want him to leave just yet, so he said, “Yes,” and John went to the kitchen.  
  
  
In the kitchen, John began making the tea. He set the water to boil and leaned against the counter, trying not to let his eyes droop too much. John silently wished that the water would hurry up and boil so that he could get back to Sherlock and his calming presence.  
  
  
Sherlock sat at the table waiting for John to make the tea. He watched the doctor’s eyes droop, then snap back open. Then droop, and open again.  
  
Sherlock had this odd sense that he wanted to help John stay up. Maybe if he’d just wrap his arms around him....  
  
  
The sharp whistling of the kettle startled John out of his sleepy haze. With lidded eyes, John poured the water into the tea cups to let the tea bags soak. After a few minutes of absently dipping the bags in and out of the cups, he automatically put one cup to the side and dropped two sugar cubes into the other one. Sherlock always took his tea with two sugars—it was something John took pride in knowing without ever asking once.  
  
  
Sherlock took his tea absentmindedly. Mmm. Two sugars. He smiled. John never failed to remember how he liked it. Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder if he was like that in other areas...  
  
  
John blew on it gently for a while until it was cool enough to taste. The liquid sent a warm feeling through his body as it slid down his throat, making him feel drowsier and like he could fall asleep standing up at any moment. Hopefully Sherlock would catch him if he fell....  
  
  
“Yellow.”  
  
  
John made the effort to lift his head and raise his eyebrows at the detective, unimpressed. “Purple.”  
  
  
“The yellow man, John!” Sherlock said. “He’s suppose to turn yellow; I’m going back to the morgue.” Sherlock had almost forgotten. Him of all people.  
  
Sherlock grabbed his coat.  
  
  
John stared as Sherlock abruptly stood to get his coat. He yawned and said, “I’d looove to join you, of course, but I am _knackered._  I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”  
  
  
  
Sherlock watched John’s face droop one last time before he left. He hoped John wouldn't fall into that tea. Maybe I _should_  stay...  
  
 _Of course not._  He’s Sherlock Holmes. Would he really rather be helping someone to his bed than taking on a case? _Absolutely not_.  
  
He did glance back to the door though, without even thinking. Was it really that bad to change? Was it really that bad to rather want to stay in on such a late night and drink tea with John? Was this what happened when you got older?  
  
Sherlock shook away the thoughts. There was still a body to examine.  
  
After he got to the hospital and picked the ridiculously easy lock, he went straight to the morgue. It was quiet and dark and rather strange. He’d been alone here many times before, but never quite so olooped. Sherlock didn’t believe in evil entities—not in the slightest, but he still had a sense of presence as he opened the door to a body.  
  
This presence presented itself when Sherlock opened the door. The body was just sliding out of the wall when he heard a clatter of something dropping on the floor behind him. The light went on then, and he could see Molly standing by the light switch. Her hair was ruffled and her blouse wrinkled. It was obvious she had been frightened, by the look on her face, but that quickly evaporated when she saw that it was Sherlock.  
  
“Sherlock,” she breathed.  
  
“Molly,” Sherlock greeted, turning back to his specimen. The body was yellow—and very yellow at that. Yes, _yes_! “Yellow!”  
  
“What's that?” Molly asked, disregarding the detectives intrusion and rather illegal examination of the body.  
  
“I just solved the case,” he said—and stopped. It was the way she looked, the first look that stopped him from gloating first and asking questions later. She looked distraught. “What are you doing here at this hour? Don’t you ever get any sleep,” Sherlock chastised as he slid the body back in into the wall.  
  
“Oh, I uh,” she yawned, “I guess I fell asleep after you left.” She looked up suddenly, as if realizing her surroundings. “How’d you get in here?” she asked.  
  
“Door was open,” Sherlock lied. “Really ought to get those locks checked out.”  
  
“What’re you here for?” she questioned and looked at his position next to the wall. “Oh, Sherlock,” she said, shaking her head. “You didn’t-”  
  
“I just came for the color of his skin, no need to worry,” he assured her. “John stayed behind and I’m off now anyway.” Sherlock stopped at the door this time to turn and say, “Don’t wear yourself out, Molly, get some sleep.” She stared at him surprised and then grinned.  
  
“Of course,” she said.


	3. Couch Buddies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They become couch buddies

Sherlock erupted out into the brisk, cool air and called a cab. The driver took him to his destination quickly, with it being night and all. When Sherlock got up to the flat, John was still at the table, sleeping with his head on his hand.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said, shaking him awake.  
  
  
John opened his eyes half-way to see Sherlock gently shaking his shoulder. “Wha’? Where am I?”  
  
  
“The kitchen-” Sherlock stopped himself before he could call him what he usually does. John seems to not like it when he says that. “You fell asleep here, John.”  
  
  
“Oh,” the doctor mumbled, still half-asleep but becoming more aware. “Is that body yellow or not, then, Sherlock?”  
  
  
“It is,” Sherlock said, helping him up.  
  
  
“Okay.” John nodded and straightened up, patting Sherlock on the shoulder absentmindedly. “That good, is it? Mean anything?”  
  
  
“Oh yes,” Sherlock said triumphantly. But showing off could wait till morning. “Get some sleep, John”  
  
  
He frowned. “Sleep. Sounds boring.” He moved to exit the kitchen, but swayed on his feet and stopped.  
  
  
John stopped and Sherlock hesitated. He really didn’t want to go to bed. He wasn’t even that tired. He really didn’t want to part with him. Sherlock couldn’t keep him up though.  
  
How easy it would be if they shared a bedroom, he thought.  
  
Sherlock stopped in his tracks. They _did_  share a living room.  
  
“Alright then,” the detective said. He led John to the couch, where he leaned heavily against the side. Sherlock sat next to him, hoping the doctor wouldn’t question it.  
  
  
Sherlock led John to the couch, where he sat down and leaned against the side. Sherlock sat down next to him. John hid his smile by bringing his feet onto the couch, curling into a ball, and tucking his face into the cushion and his hands. The bottoms of John’s feet were pressed solidly against Sherlock’s thighs, but he didn’t care and hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t mind.  
  
  
As Sherlock sat next to John, he curled up and put his feet on Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock couldn’t help but wish that John had leaned the other way so his head was against him.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes started to close, and he realized how tired he really was. The detective watched John. It wasn’t long before he was in a deep sleep that Sherlock allowed himself to lean over close, resting his head on John. Sherlock’s eyes drooped lower and lower until they were closed, and all he hoped was that John wouldn’t mind when he woke up.  
  
  
When John woke up the second time, there was a heavy weight pressing against him. He opened his eyes, then squinted and closed them again at the sudden infiltration of light. After a moment, he opened his eyes fully and adjusted to the light.  
  
There was body sprawled out next to John, limbs stretching out across his own body. An arm was slung across his waist and a face pressed against the back side of his neck. Familiar curls brushed against John’s skin, and suddenly his whole body felt too hot, tingly all over, as the lovely scent of Sherlock filled his nose.  
  
  
Sherlock gained consciousness still on John. His first impulse was to jump up immediately, but he stopped. John was so warm and soft. The early morning light was just escaping through the shades, surely too early for John to awaken. The detective decided to lay there just a while longer, doing so by wrapping his arm tighter around John. His eyes closed again.  
  
  
John breathed in deeply and sighed. Sherlock stiffened almost imperceptibly behind him as he, without thinking, snuggled back into him, causing their bodies to be pressed tighter together. In turn, John stiffened too; Sherlock was awake.  
  
  
John snuggled into Sherlock and he stiffened, surprised. Was John awake? Oh god.  
  
His chloroform was in the drawer so he had no way of making John pass out again. Maybe the lamp-?  
  
Well he wasn’t going to _hit_ him.  
  
  
Sherlock’s body was warm, the feeling of their bodies pressed together was almost overwhelming. John waited silently, half-expecting Sherlock to move or say something to diffuse the sudden awkward tension. What he was not expecting, though, was to be shoved unceremoniously onto the floor.


	4. Diffusing the Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Release the awkwardness

Sherlock felt John was about to say something, which alarmed him. So Sherlock may have pushed his arms out sending John to the floor.  
  
This was his chance; he could see two possible ways to get out of this. The first, to grab the chloroform as quickly as he could. The second, to leave the flat entirely. Maybe leave the country, change his name. He could never find 'Sherlock' on the key chains anyway.  
  
Sherlock hesitated when he saw John though. Sherlock was standing up at the end of the couch. John was still on the floor.  
  
  
John’s mouth gaped open in shock as he stared at Sherlock’s sudden looming form. _He just pushed me off the couch!_  A part of John was glad—if he had stayed curled in Sherlock's arms any longer, it might’ve been impossible to ever pull away. Another part was disappointed (he was really warm) and the other was just astonished. What was Sherlock going to do next? Knock John out with chloroform and pretend this never happened?  
  
  
Sherlock glanced toward the chloroform drawer. John saw him though, he would know.  
  
So that was out the window.  
  
It was too late. All Sherlock could stand to do was say his name. “Well, good morning, John.”

  
!Good morning? You push me off the bloody couch and say _good morning!?_ ” John said, standing up and facing Sherlock. John tried not to let his sudden hurt show on his face, but it was useless. Sherlock would be able to tell. “If you were that opposed to waking up next to me, then why the hell did you fall asleep with me on the couch?”  
  
  
“Well it's not _my_  fault!” Sherlock shot back, “You’re the one that refused to go to bed; I was just staying up with you.”  
  
  
“Well, I distinctly remember _you_  leading me to the couch! You could’ve made me go to my bed, or left me on the couch and gone to your own room!” John retorted. Then he glanced at the time and realization dawned on him. “Oh, bloody ‘ell. I’m going to be late for lunch with Marlene! I still have to go shopping beforehand, and get you your oxide nitrogen....”  
  
  
Sherlock threw his hands in the air. “Oh _bother,_ ” he said and made his way into his room, slamming the door shut behind him.  
  
  
John stared at Sherlock’s retreating back in confusion and called after him, “This isn't over, you dramatic, overly tall extraordinary sociopath! I'll be back as soon as I finish my date with Marlene!”  
  
  
 _Date?!_  Damn you John Watson. Give him hope and take it away. He didn’t need that in his life. Sherlock didn't need him. He could go off and marry her for all he cares.  
  
  
John rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath. He went over and pulled on his coat. He took one last glance at the space where Sherlock was moments ago before he started down the steps and out of the building. On the cab ride to the store, John made a mental list of what he was going to buy. Milk, eggs, definitely some tea... Perhaps some more sugar cubes?  
  
  
Sherlock lay on his bed, with his hands templed beneath his chin. John started it, Sherlock thought, John was the one that wanted to stay up, he was the one that fell asleep. He was the one that was warmer than his own comforter.  
  
And now Sherlock had gone and made a mess of things. He was still steaming. What he really needed was to smoke. John had his, so Sherlock grabbed his wallet and headed to a drugstore down the street.  
  
John had left, which was good. He, of course, would know where Sherlock was going. He headed down the stairs and out into the late morning air.  
  
  
John easily got what he needed at the store, and quickly enough that he was certain that he wouldn't be late for lunch. The place he was seeing her at wasn’t far from the market, so instead of paying for a short taxi ride, John began walking. On the way, he passed by a flower stand and decided to pick out a small bouquet of peonies, Marlene's favorite flower, before he arrived.  
  


Sherlock stood on the corner, he was on his second cigarette. How ironic. First John was the reason Sherlock had stopped smoking and now he was the reason for starting.  
  
  
An hour later, John was reluctantly parting ways with Marlene, after telling her that they would most definitely meet up soon. Then it was time to go home and empty the two light shopping bags in his arms.  
  
John wasn’t really mad at Sherlock much, just terribly confused. He also felt the last shred of hope drain him; if Sherlock was willing to shove John off of the couch just to get away from him, if he was so eager to get rid of the contact between them that John cherished, how could he possibly have any sort of feelings for him?  
  
  
Sherlock wasn’t mad at John. It was _partly_  his fault. Sherlock did sit him down on the sofa rather than his usual chair.

He would apologize, people like that. Then it would go on normally, as it had.  
  
  
When John got home, he immediately put the cold items in the fridge (as far away from the jar of eyeballs, something that never failed to make him shake his head in annoyance) and starting to make a cup of tea, though it was a bit earlier than Sherlock and him usually drank their tea together. Absentmindedly and instinctively, he pulled out a second cup for Sherlock, but then he put it back. John didn’t even know if Sherlock was home or not.  
  
  
Sherlock wandered back into the flat where he found John sitting with a single mug of tea.  
  
Sherlock froze as soon as he saw him there.  
  
  
John looked up at the sound of Sherlock returning. He walked into the kitchen and halted when he saw me. John decided to break his promise earlier and let the couch thing go. He smiled at Sherlock a bit and took a sip of his tea. “I got oxide nitrogen, since you said you needed it.”  
  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said. He grabbed _his_ _own_  mug to pour tea into. As Sherlock sat down across from John he smiled again. “I apologize for earlier. It wasn’t your fault.”  
  
  
“I know,” John said quietly, a small smirk on his lips. “Seriously, though, it’s fine. I’ll just keep in mind that if I want to faceplant on the floor, all I have to do is climb into bed with you.”  
  
  
Oh the thought of him in bed with Sherlock made the detective feel all tingly. He wondered—how could he get John to want to be pushed on the floor?


	5. Tension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tension arises

 John finished the rest of his tea as Sherlock started drinking his. John sat there for a few minutes, subtly admiring Sherlock’s appearance while fondly recollecting the few blissful moments of being wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms that morning. Who knew being the little spoon was so enjoyable?  
  
  
“How was lunch with Mandy?”  
  
  
“Marlene,” John corrected. He narrowed his eyes. “And it was lovely. It was nice to catch up with her. I smell a bit like peonies now, though, and cat. Weird combination.”  
  
  
“Peonies?” How did he remember her favorite flower if she was such an old friend? “And she brought a cat with her?”  
  
  
John chuckled and said, “No, Sherlock. Ernesto stayed at home, but Ernie is a rather cuddly, strong-smelling cat. The scent clung.”  
  
  
Oh god, Sherlock hoped John had picked it up from the wind. “What else do you have planned for the day?” Of course he already knew, but he just couldn’t stand the silence.  
  
  
“Staying here, I suppose. Not much else to do,” John said. Then he raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Why? Got any plans? Any new cases?”  
  
  
“No. I guess it’s just another night of spooning for us, then,” Sherlock chuckled at his own joke, wishing he hadn’t said it.  
  
  
John laughed along weakly, half-heartedly. Oh, how he wish tonight's sleeping arrangements could be the same as yesterday's. In fact, he wished the _permanent_  sleeping arrangement was like yesterday's... except, maybe, in a bed.  
  
  
“I didn’t hurt you, did I? When you fell of the couch?”  
  
  
“Yes, actually. Hurt quite a bit.” John watched Sherlock’s face turn a bit apologetic with smug satisfaction. Then he added, “Right here,” and pointed at his heart. “Bruised my ego a bit, too.”  
  
  
Sherlock laughed. “You were a brilliant cuddling partner, John, I was just a bit surprised waking up how we were.”  
  
  
“Brilliant cuddling partner? Really?” A warm feeling ballooned in John’s chest, and he grinned like the cat that got the cream. “You weren’t so bad yourself, Mr. Sherlock. Who knew you were such a good cuddler?”  
  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
  
John nodded and took a sip of his tea as he smiled. It felt good to joke about it; instead of it being an awkward thing that they would avoid talking about for forever, it was something funny. Plus, it made John feel like blushing when Sherlock had said that he was a brilliant cuddling partner.  
  
  
Sherlock finished his tea off quickly and sat back in his chair.  
  
  
John stood to take their empty cups to the sink, then sat back down. He didn’t really want to stop talking to Sherlock quite yet, and he had nothing else to do.  
  
  
“Where did you store my oxide nitrogen?” Sherlock asked. It had to be in total darkness or else it would turn to water.  
  
  
“Where I always put it,” John told him. He asked every time John bought him oxide nitrogen, as if he expected John to forget. “It’s in a pitch black space, don’t worry.”  
  
  
Sherlock nodded. Of course John wouldn’t forget.  
  
  
“What do you want to do for dinner?" John questioned. “Anything specific you have in mind?”  
  
  
“What do we have in the pantry?”  
  
  
“Not much. Instant noodles. We’ve got some TV dinners in the freezer. Some leftover lasagna that Mrs. Hudson dropped by the other day.”  
  
  
"Sounds good."  
  
  
"Lasagna, I presume." John looked at the time. It was a few hours until dinner time. "What should we do now, then?"  
  
  
Sherlock’s agenda was clear for the day. He had already informed Lestrade of the killer and ridden the shower of mildew. Sherlock got up to the living room and turned on the telly.  
  
  
John shook his head almost fondly when, instead of answering him, Sherlock stood up abruptly and went to the living room to watch the telly. John stood up and following, opting to sit next to Sherlock on the couch despite the events that occurred last night and this morning by simply sitting and falling asleep next to Sherlock on this couch.  
  
  
John sat next to Sherlock on the couch. He let him. Sherlock even smiled inwardly. Fond memories of last night came running back to him.  
  
  
The body heat emanating from Sherlock was distracting to John. He wanted nothing more than to tug the detective by his shirt so that they were lying as they had been this morning. John couldn’t do that, though, and he never would be able to... and that _killed_  me.  
  
  
Sherlock longed to put his arm around John, hold him close. It was impossible though. Still, the detective left his hand rather close to John’s leg.  
  
  
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it felt... weird. Like it was filled with an electric charge, a sudden tension that made John’s skin crawl, but in a good way. Some part of him, way in the depths of his mind, told him that it was the discernible want to be touching the man next to him, along with the fact that he couldn’t give in to his desire.  
  
  
The news was on, talking about how there would be rain. Dull. There was always rain. Sherlock looked over to John. Their hands were almost touching, just a whisper away. Sherlock wished he had some sort of reason to hold it. Feel John’s soft warm skin on his own.  
  
  
As the news droned on, John could tell that Sherlock was bored of it. John leaned across Sherlock to grab the remote, and as soon as he reached it, he froze. Almost his entire side was leaning onto Sherlock to get to the remote. John took a deep breath and immediately regretted it; Sherlock smelled _amazing_ , and it was almost too overwhelming.  
  
  
John was leaning on Sherlock, his side close against the detectives chest. Sherlock looked to John's hand as he clutched the remote.  
  
What did this mean? Why did he freeze? Was it because he felt awkward or was this a sign for something else?  
  
Regardless of common sense Sherlock leaned slightly in, letting the soft scent of John engulf him.  
  
  
John felt Sherlock lean into him a little, and fuzzy heat expanded through his chest. Without thinking, John sat back with the remote but kept himself pressed against Sherlock’s side, in a way that made it seem like it could’ve been the act of leaning over that shifted his position closer to him.  
  
  
John fell back to his sitting position, but considerably closer. The heat from his leg made Sherlock's feel tingly. The good kind of tingly.  
  
  
John hurriedly changed the channel to a show he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t mind watching. The tension was palpable. John wished he could turn his head, gaze into those brilliant eyes, hold Sherlock’s hand and kiss those lips. It was disconcerting how badly he wanted Sherlock to be his own.  
  
  
John changed the channel to some fluffy little sitcom. Their hands were so close Sherlock could feel the heat radiating off them.  
  
John’s breathing starting getting quicker, gradually, but quite noticeably. Sherlock looked over at him, concerned. John looked back and they locked eyes for a moment.  
  
John's dilated.  
  
  
Sherlock was so close. Too close, yet not close enough. It was too overwhelming. John's breathing was picking up, and Sherlock noticed.  
  
He looked at John, and John looked back. As soon as their eyes locked, John glanced down, afraid that Sherlock would be able to read his thoughts. That he would be able to notice the want in John’s eyes. Sherlock’s gaze was magnetic, though; it pulled John back in and held him there, as if suspended in time.  
  
  
Everything around us was just white noise now. It was as if they were suspended in time.  
  
Sherlock had to know what this was. Was John thinking about Sherlock that made him act like that? Or was it someone else? Would he tell Sherlock if he asked?  
  
“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock murmured.  
  
  
As soon as the words fell from Sherlock’s mouth, John froze. He wanted to tell the truth, he wanted to whisper, _You_. John wanted him to know that he was all John thought about, day in and day out. The word was at the tip of his tongue, ready to be said, to be out in the open once and for all. When John opened his mouth, one word tumbled out, without thinking. “Nothing.”  
  
  
“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked. His hand twitched toward John’s so their hands touched for the slightest moment.  
  
  
Their hands grazed each other, and John’s heart stuttered in his chest. He felt like a teenage school girl around her first crush. He shook his head instinctively, then realized what Sherlock had said. “Yes.”  
  
  
“You don’t sound sure,” Sherlock’s voice was barely audible by this point. He was so scared of what would happen next. Not just of John not wanting him, but if he did what would happen then? Sherlock was always so distant; would he ever be enough for John?  
  
  
They were unconsciously leaning closer to each other, and Sherlock’s smell was overpowering. What should John say? How would this go? The way Sherlock was acting... it was almost as if he felt the same.  But John couldn’t get his hopes up; it was too risky. Sherlock was a hard man to read; he could figure you all out within minutes, seconds even, and after knowing him for as long as John has, he still felt like he didn't really understand him. There was no way Sherlock could have feelings for John; he was married to his work, as he had said. “I am,” John, told him, but it still didn’t sound sure. Damn him for making John's voice weak and shaky.  
  
  
The detective’s heart fell. This is exactly what he had feared. Even if John did love him, he didn’t care enough to show it. Was he ashamed?  
  
Sherlock couldn’t stand the tension anymore. He was _so_  close to John. If he stayed a second longer Sherlock might’ve kissed John then and there. And where would that leave them?  
  
He jumped up muttering a quick, “Excuse me,” and practically leaped through his bedroom door. Sherlock shut it behind him quickly and sat on his bed to catch his breath.  
  
  
In a blur, Sherlock was gone. John stared at the show that was still going on in shock. Sherlock was gone. He had left. John couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed; if Sherlock had stayed any longer, John may have kissed him, and what would happen then? It would all be ruined.

John sat back and tried to calm his racing heart and wild thoughts. Even as he continued watching the show and pushed whatever had just happened to the back of my mind, he couldn’t ignore the heavy weight of regret curling in his stomach. He felt as if he had lost something precious, but he couldn’t put a finger on what it was.

 

Sherlock wished John would come to his door. He wish John would just burst in. He wanted John so bad right now.  
  
If John came to him, Sherlock would tell him. He would just tell him.


	6. Finality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exciting things

John couldn’t ignore that odd feeling of regret, no matter how hard he tried. If he made a move, if he told Sherlock how he felt... yes, maybe it would all be ruined, but maybe something better would fill its place.  
John got up, ready to charge into Sherlock’s bedroom and kiss him senseless regardless of the consequences. If he got just one kiss out of it, maybe making everything awkward and obliterating their friendship would be worth it. He’d just have to see....  
  
  
Footsteps. _Footsteps_. Oh god. Was this it? Was it John coming to Sherlock’s door? The footsteps got closer, and closer until they were just outside his door.  
  
  
John stood in front of the door, indecision and doubt clouding his thoughts. This was it. Once he went in there, he wouldn’t be able to go back. Was he really ready for this? Could he handle the inevitable rejection? Would he be able to face Sherlock after this?  
  
John had made his choice. He didn’t want to go on like this, always wondering if Sherlock knew his feelings, what he thought of him. John turned the handle, opened the door, and stepped inside.  
  
  
Sherlock had already been on his feet, standing in front of the door waiting. John had _opened_  it.  
  
  
Sherlock stood in front of John, as if he had been expecting him. His breath caught and he stared at the detective, waiting for him to do something, anything. _Like kiss him._  
  
  
Not a second had passed before Sherlock collided into him, his lips meeting John’s. He held John—pressed him against himself.  
  
Sherlock strode towards John and pressed their bodies together, his lips molding against John’s in a kiss. _Oh my God. We’re actually doing this. We’re kissing._  
  
It was... heavenly. The phone rang in the distance, but it felt like they were in their own little world as John clutched at Sherlock and kept him to himself, kissing the detective like he’d dreamt about doing for so long.  
  
  
John kissed Sherlock back. Sherlock felt his heart would just burst. That’s when the phone rang, of course trying to ruin the moment.  
  
To hell with the phone, Sherlock thought, John was his now.  
  
  
The phone stopped ringing, and John kissed Sherlock harder. He started walking, guiding their bodies to the bed without breaking contact. Everything felt so surreal, like a dream. If it was a dream, then John hoped he never, ever woke up.  
  
  
Sherlock pulled John back to the bed with him and spun them so that he fell on top of John. They landed on the layer of pillows and blankets the detective had strewn everywhere.  
  
  
They fell onto the soft bed, Sherlock’s body aligning with John’s. Their fronts were pressed so tightly together, their weight causing them to sink into the bed. It was even better than this morning; the contact plus the pressure of Sherlock’s soft, firm lips against his own made his whole mind go numb.  
  
  
Sherlock pressed himself harder against John, wishing the layer of cloth between them would evaporate. John’s lips were hard against his. And yet it wasn’t enough.

Sherlock thought a phone may have been ringing in the background again, but he didn’t pay any attention. _John_.  
  
  
John couldn’t help the breathy little sigh that left his mouth as they exchanged blissful kisses. His hands went up the sculpted form of Sherlock’s back and tangled in his curls, and the doctor smiled against his mouth.  
  
  
“John,” Sherlock moaned against his mouth. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening. It seemed his entire universe was finally completed. It all made sense now. John was his universe.  
  
  
All John could feel, and think, and taste was Sherlock. He invaded all of John’s senses; he was all around him, above him, so close yet not close enough and _God_. He couldn’t believe this was happening. It felt like finally, _finally_ , everything was perfect. Nothing and no one else mattered but him and Sherlock.  
  
He could stay here forever.  
  
  
The phone rang again. _Damn that phone_. Sherlock was torn between throwing it at the window and ignoring it all together.  
  
He had the hem of John’s sweater in his hands when the door swung open behind them.  
  
“Sherlock didn't you hear the pho-” Mrs. Hudson started to say. She stopped when her eyes fell on them. “Oh dear, caught you at a bad time. I’ll just tell them to call back later,” she said with a wink and left.  
  
Sherlock was next to John on his back breathing heavily. Mrs. Hudson came back not a minute later with the phone in her hands.  
  
“You better get this dear, they said it’s urgent.”

 

 _God damn that phone_ , John thought. He stayed next to Sherlock, stuck in a daze. Sherlock’s kisses were addicting, intoxicating, and now he couldn’t think of anything else. Sherlock was quicker at recovering; he stood and grabbed the phone from Mrs. Hudson while John stared at him.

  
  
“ _What_ ,” Sherlock said a bit aggressively into the phone. Mrs. Hudson made a noise that sounded a lot like laughing and went into the living room.  
  
A voice came on on the other end. “What the hell, Sherlock!” Lestrade yelled. “What was so important you missed three damn calls?!”  
  
  
John sat up in the bed and ran a hand through his hair. John’s cheeks were burning, and his skin felt hot and tingly. He needed to compose himself. And obviously, the phone call was important.  
  
  
Sherlock wasn’t even trying to hide his annoyance when he asked what was so bloody important to _call him three times_. And interrupt possibly the best moment of his life.  
  
“It’s the murderer. He’s gone,” Lestrade replied.  
  
Sherlock let out a sharp breath. “And _why_ do _you_  need _me_?” he said out of clenched teeth.  
  
“He just killed three of my men in a getaway; where’d he go? What’s he up to? I _need_  your help.”  
  
“Bloody hell.” Sherlock clutched the phone in his hands. He knew he had to go. He just didn’t want to.  
  
Just before leaving his bedroom, Sherlock glanced back at John. He was still sitting on Sherlock’s bed, concern plastered on his face. The detective couldn’t bare to say goodbye to him. So he didn’t say anything at all.  
  
Sherlock left him with an apologetic glance and headed to the crime scene.


	7. Snogging. Snogging was good.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escape to Norway!

John listened in to the conversation, but he was only getting half of it—and Sherlock didn’t say much. When he left, it was a wordless departure.  
  
John jumped up to follow the detective, but he was already gone. Mrs. Hudson was in the living room, watching the forgotten telly. “Where’s he gone?” the doctor asked.  
  
  
When Sherlock got to the scene, Lestrade was standing by a car talking to a paramedic. "Alright I'm here what do you want." Sherlock said interrupting their conversation.  
  
Lestrade saw him all tense and uptight. “God, what’sup your ass?” he asked.  
  
It’s what’s _not_  up his ass. “Nothing.” Sherlock say blatantly.  
  
“Alright well do your thing, tell me where he went,” he said gesturing to the scene.  
  
  
“I don't know, dear. He just up and left. He looked a bit stormy,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I have some tea cooking up for you in the kitchen, if you'd like it.”  
  
John nodded and went to the kitchen. He tried not to think too much about what Sherlock was doing now. Was it something big? Dangerous? Why didn’t he let John come along? Ever since that first time, it’s always been a given that he would go with Sherlock if something came up.  
  
  
Sherlock swept around the crime scene and through the killer’s house. He did it as quickly as he could, not just for Lestrade but also for John.  
  
He had left rather abruptly. Sherlock didn’t want to leave him there, but he had to. They would’ve had to talk about what'd happened quickly, and without much meaning. Something like this should be cherished.  
  
Besides, this was dangerous, more dangerous than anything they’ve been in before. Sherlock finally had something in his life that made him feel whole, and he wasn’t about to give that up.  
  
  
John brewed a cup of tea and heated up some of the lasagna that Sherlock and him had planned on eating for dinner. Once the food and tea was done, he went back into the living room to join Mrs. Hudson, but she was gone.  
  
“Why does everyone always disappear without saying a bloody word!?”  
  
  
“Most likely Netherlands,” Sherlock told Lestrade while getting his coat. He started walking off when Greg came running up behind him.  
  
“Whoa, whoa,” he said, “I’m gonna need more than that; where else could they have gone? Where in the Netherlands?” Sherlock let out an annoyed breath to show Greg that he had things to do. “Oh come on, Sherlock," he said grabbing Sherlock's arm to stop him, “they killed three of my men. Three of my friends. I knew them. They had families.”  
  
The pleading in his voice really got to Sherlock. He stopped and looked right at Lestrade. The man was sad obviously, and tired. “Okay,” Sherlock said and gave him a list of locations. He thanked Sherlock immensely and was on his way again.  
  
“What _were_  you doing, Sherlock?” he called after Sherlock.  
  
The side of his mouth twitched. “Not what,” he said to himself, “who.”  
  
  
John settled into the couch and ate the lasagna, watching the rest of some comedy show that he couldn’t remember the name of. He hoped Sherlock would be home soon. But what would they do then?  
  
Maybe they would snog more. Snogging was good.  
  
  
As soon as Sherlock got up to the flat he hesitated at the door. What would he do when he got in there? Was John mad he left without a word? Was Mrs. Hudson still there? Would he be able to kiss John again?  
  
  
John heard footsteps at the door as he got up to dispose of his mug and plate in the kitchen. Was that Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson? He wanted it to be Sherlock, but he didn’t know what he would do if it was. Where did they stand now? What was John to him? Sherlock had kissed him back, but... surely it hadn’t been a heat of the moment thing? Sherlock wasn’t the kind of guy to get lost in a moment and think irrationally.

  
  
Sherlock opened the door and walked in to look around. He met eyes with John in the kitchen.  
  
  
The door opened, and John froze, turning slowly towards the entrance to the kitchen. Sherlock walked in and locked eyes with the doctor. John couldn’t hold in his nervous smile as Sherlock walked toward me.  
  
  
Those lips were just too inviting. Sherlock walked toward John, grabbed his face before he did anything else, asked with his eyes if John was mad at him.  
  


Sherlock’s hands were cool on his face, and John breathed his scent in. He couldn’t get enough of his looks, of his smell, of his taste. John could see the question in his eyes, and he shook his head. _No._  He was here now, and that’s what mattered.


	8. British Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much just making out

The second Sherlock knew John wouldn't push him away he collided into his doctor. He had his hands on the fridge now, locking John in. Sherlock's lips met his with such ferocity.  
  
  
Just like last time, the detective crushed their bodies together and kissed John fervently. He had his hands on the fridge on either side of John, leaving him trapped. Not that he minded....  
  
Once again, his hands went to Sherlock's hair. He tugged lightly and pulled his mouth closer to his own, deepening the kiss.  
  
  
They were practically one as Sherlock crushed them against the fridge. He wanted nothing to spoil this moment.  
  
  
John moaned lightly as Sherlock pressed tighter against him. His mouth was soft and his body warm and he never, ever wanted to do anything else but this.  
  
  
Sherlock wanted to go further, do more, but he couldn't yet.  
  
Without his hands leaving the fridge, he pulled away from John to look into his eyes. Sherlock didn't want to be the first one to speak; he didn't know what to say. Would he scare John off if he said he loved him, needed him?  
  
  
Sherlock pulled away, and John took a deep breath. The doctor searched his eyes, which were bright and happy but laced with light fear. he smiled almost shyly and said, "You're a good kisser, Sherlock."  
  
  
"Well," Sherlock chuckled, "there's more where that came from. That is- if you want more,"  
  
  
John's smile widened and he nodded. "Always," he muttered, leaning up to press one light kiss on his plump lips. "For as long as you’re willing."  
  
  
Sherlock smiled again. _Always_. That sounded just brilliant. Sherlock was kissing him again. He could do this forever.  
  
  
John sighed happily and melted into the detective's kiss. He felt like he was still in shock. Sherlock wanted him, and that was amazing. This extraordinary man, who didn't get along with many people, was here and _wanted_  John, wanted to kiss him too. It was a very, very good feeling.  
  
  
Only the smallest question lingered, but Sherlock pushed it to the back of my mind. It could wait.  
  
He melted into John against the fridge. It was cool beneath his hands, but John was burning beneath me.  
  
  
John felt hot all over; he suddenly wished that the layers between them were no longer there. He kissed Sherlock even harder, hard enough to bruise their lips.  
  
Then John pulled away. Sherlock looked at him in confusion, looking at him like he wanted to dive right back in, and he knew that John wouldn't complain. Right now, though, John had some things to clear up. "Wait," the doctor said, trying to catch his breath.  
  
  
Sherlock tried to hide his frustration when he pulled away. He dropped his hands back to his sides and took a step back. John and him were both breathing quite heavily.  
  
  
"I, personally, would feel a bit better if we... cleared some things up," John said. He looked up at Sherlock, then glanced away. Damn, he was gorgeous. "Didn’t get much of a proper talk in beforehand."  
  
  
"Alright, what would you like to discuss?" Sherlock walked over to sit on the couch, expecting John to follow him.  
  
  
Sherlock left the kitchen, and John took a moment to himself. He closed his eyes, leaned against the fridge, and calmed his breathing. He had to get his thoughts together; he needed to talk to Sherlock about how he felt. John didn't want to play a guessing game; he wanted to know exactly where they stood and where they would be standing.  
  
  
Sherlock waited for John to join him on the couch.  
  
  
After a moment, John followed Sherlock into the living room and onto the couch. "Okay, so I think it would be good to talk about... us. Or, rather, what just happened. I mean... yeah. If you have any questions, ask them. I think it would be good to... get everything out in the open."  
  
  
Sherlock was running his hand along John's cheek as he spoke. It made him blush. He looked cute when he blushed.  
  
"What do you think is happening?"  
  
  
"I think..." John paused. What did he think?  
  
He thought that Sherlock kissed him, and he kissed back. John told him this and then looked away. Would he scare him off if John told him his feelings? If he let Sherlock know just how much he meant to John?  
  
  
Sherlock's heart fell. John hesitated. Was he going to reject him? Did John have deeper feelings for Mandy? What would happen after this?  
  
Sherlock dropped his hand.  
  
This all happened so quickly he had no idea what he was doing. _He_  had kissed John first. He had finally let all his built up emotion out in the open. He hadn't done that since he was a child.  
  
  
Sherlock dropped his hand from John's face, his eyes difficult to read. John hated how much they were tiptoeing around each other, how afraid he was. John looked into Sherlock's eyes and gathered up the courage to say what he'd wanted to say for so long.  
  
"I like you. Like, I have feelings for you... in a not-so-friend way. I hope... that doesn't- I mean, yeah. You don't have to feel the same, I'll get it if you don't...."  
  
John was looking down at his lap now, his teeth digging into his lip nervously as he waited for Sherlock's response to my confession.  
  
  
"John..." Sherlock wanted so badly to kiss him, he had to knot his hands together in his lap. John looked so dashing with his heart caught up in his throat. His blue eyes lit up in a manner that made it that much more difficult to constrain himself. "I like you too," Sherlock said. It didn't half explain how he felt about him, but he wasn't about to go on about emotions. He hoped John wouldn't mind that; He just doesn't.

 

John's heart stuttered at the words. He was almost giddy; he had liked Sherlock for so long, and he had never known that the detective could ever like him back. It was a wonderful feeling. John hid his smile by pressing his lips to Sherlock's.  
  
  
John pressed his lips to Sherlock's and the detective exhaled deeply. He didn't even notice he was holding his breath. It was odd- and slightly wonderful how only John could have this effect on him. Sherlock leaned in to deepen the kiss and found himself pressing hard against John.  
  
  
Sherlock's body was warm; John leaned back against the couch to support the weight of them pressing against. He lost himself in Sherlock's warmth - the heat of his mouth, of his skin, of his hands. He was everywhere, yet it just wasn't enough.  
  
  
Sherlock leaned in farther- and farther until he was practically on top of John. Sherlock couldn't imagine the doctor could be very comfortable, leaning against the loafs arm like that, but he was too involved in what he was doing to reach for a pillow. Perhaps they wouldn't be here much longer anyway.  
  
  
John parted his lips as he reached up to grab the back of Sherlock's neck, tugging at his hair and sighing into his mouth.  
  
  
John's hand went up Sherlock's back, making him feel all tingly. He liked it.  
  
  
They broke away for air, panting heavily and keeping their lips close. Every time John inhaled, their lips lightly brushed, sending shivers down his spine.  
  
  
"John..." Sherlock moaned. He was so close yet not close enough. Every cell in his body ached for him. The detective burned with passion, passion hot enough to light the room on fire.  
  
  
"Sherlock," John whispered back, leaning up that last millimeter to capture his lips in a softer, more chaste kiss.  
  
  
The couch below them seemed to melt away, leaving the two of them floating, caught in their moment in time.  
  
  
John pulled away again and smiled. Then he started to sit up, making Sherlock move in sync with him as they awkwardly stood from the couch while still keeping their bodies together.  
  
  
Sherlock beamed at the sight of John. He was so adorable, the slight ruffle in his hair, the way he couldn't stop smiling.  
  
  
John tugged him back in for another kiss as they started stumbling out of the room and down the hall. He only pulled away long enough to murmur, "Yours or mine?"


	9. Marlene?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What

Sherlock pushed open the nearest door without even thinking and they both tumbled into it, knocking into John's nightstand, sending a few things to the floor. He didn't seem to mind.  
  
  
They moved blindly towards the bed. John tried to hold back a sudden laugh when they knocked into the nightstand. While he had steered Sherlock towards the room, Sherlock was still in control; his body towered over John's as he broke the kiss briefly to gaze at him.  
  
  
Suddenly they were a frenzy of colors and clothes. With his face still against John's, Sherlock brought his hands to the hem of Johns sweater. His stomach felt warm against his fingers.  
  
  
Sherlock's hands on his bare skin were cold, but the temperature difference wasn't the only reason for John's shiver. The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and he fell on top of his sheets, dragging Sherlock down with him.  
  
  
Something happened and suddenly they were both on the bed. Sherlock's lips never left John's, except the moments his sweater parted them. It was only a second though, before it was across the room and out of their way for good.  
  
  
John's room was usually reasonably cool, but now it felt as if everything was on fire. Sherlock's touched seared John's skin and his lips were hot and wet. It was everything he could've ever asked for and more. The only way to make better would be to get this shirt off, he thought as he tugged at the hem of Sherlock's clothing.  
  
  
Their bodies heated up the sheets quickly. Sherlock had his hands along John's face while he tugged feverishly at the buttons of his shirt. Finally he was able to slide it off the detective and began to work at the fastenings of his shorts.  
  
  
John lightly knocked Sherlock's hands away and tried to hide his blush when Sherlock looked at John questioningly. "Not yet," he said, praying that it wasn't a problem for him. John pulled him back down into the kiss, enjoying the bare skin touching him for the moment.  
  
  
Sherlock gazed down at John's face. This was the moment he had imagined for so long. This was the man he waited for for what seemed like forever. This is everything he'd ever wanted, waited for until his bones ached. And this is the man he would wait another eternity for.  
  
They simply kissed for what felt like hours. John stayed beneath Sherlock's warm body, soft lips, and large hands until his bones felt liquefied and he sunk into the bed. The kisses turned from desperate, fast kisses to slow, passionate ones. This was better than anything John had ever experienced. This was heaven.  
  
  
They were in total bliss. Well, nearly total. There was still one thing Sherlock wanted to settle first, before anything was set final. It burned in his mind, until finally he couldn't help it. Sherlock hated to ruin the moment but he had to. He pulled away from John and looked away, unsure if he really even wanted to know the answer.  
  
  
Sherlock pulled back and John looked up at him. He avoided John's gaze, choosing to look away rather than meet his eyes, and he frowned. "What is it?"  
  
  
Sherlock looked uneasily into his eyes. "Who's Marlene?" he asked.

 

 

 

John's frown deepened and he saw the caution in Sherlock's eyes, hesitancy that he hated to see. "No one," John told him, decisively not tacking on the word 'important' to the end because, well, that wouldn’t be the truth.

 

The detective shifted around uncomfortably on top of John. He could tell John wasn't telling him something. Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was. The words just sort of slipped out, "Really?" His heart stopped as he awaited John's answer.

 

"Really." John looked unblinking into his eyes to convey his sincerity. "She's just—she's a part of my past, but—it's complicated. But the past is the past." John arched into him and whispered, ”Now is _this_."

 

Sherlock contemplated his answer carefully, analyzing his tell signs. He couldn't have been telling Sherlock everything. But he _was_ right. The other man could put off knowing for one more night. They're here _now_ and that's what matters. "Okay," He whispered, the words barely audible, "Okay." He got up from John and went to find his pjs.

 

As soon as Sherlock was up, John craved his touch again. He laid there in a daze for a moment, wondering where his detective went, before he stood and collected himself. John should probably brush his teeth. Minty fresh brush would be better for any further kissing.

 

Sherlock went to his own room. Mostly to get dressed for bed, but also partly to collect his thoughts. As he brushed his teeth, Sherlock pondered what was going through John's head when he told him Marlene was in the past. How long ago? How important to him was she?  
Any other person Sherlock could just look them up and down and tell what they were thinking but John- he's different. The detective knew it should be frustrating him that he couldn't deduce this ordeal, but honestly, it was refreshing. It felt normal. Like he was actually human.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It was originally written in first person, but I changed it, so it'd be easier to read. So if I missed something, that's why.


End file.
